


there aren't any more guns in the valley

by andibeth82



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Wolverine (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: (like a lot of them), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Bonding, Gen, Mentors, Post-Canon Fix-It, Surrogate dad feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: “You know, I fully support your habit of picking up strays,” Laura says, sitting down and thumbing over a scar on his cheek. “You know I do. But bringing home one with my name seems a little over the top, even for you.”Clint tries to smile back. “I told you. I couldn’t leave her. She needed someone.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no real excuse for how this came about. Sort-of-kind-of inspired by [this tumblr post](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com/post/158348643945/allofthefeelings-since-seeing-logan-ive-been) about what if Laura Kinney was Laura Barton, and then because it's me and I have a lot of feelings about dad!Clint and surrogate fathers, I thought, what if in the aftermath of Logan, Laura Kinney ended up being mentored by another guy who liked to adopt stray murder babies? And here we are.
> 
> Thanks to @spectralarchers for giving me the ideas that ultimately helped pull this all together. As for the timeline, it's an AU but not, in that the X-Men world is still the Marvel world, but Logan obviously happens in the future. In MCU world, this is set right after Age of Ultron but before Civil War.
> 
>  
> 
> _There’s no living with… with a killing. There’s no going back from one. Right or wrong, it’s a brand. A brand sticks. There’s no going back. Now you run on home to your mother, and tell her… tell her everything’s all right. And there aren’t any more guns in the valley.  
> _

_Sin miedo_ , Laura thinks as she crosses the border and feels the immediate pull of something hot and electric. _Sin miedo, sin miedo, sin miedo_. She repeats the mantra to herself as her body jerks and spins, a dizzying motion that makes her think she might be sick.

_Sin miedo. No fear._

She lurches forward at the same time that her stomach heaves, and throws up. The acidic vomit sears her insides and her claws tear through her skin, leaving bleeding marks on her knuckles. She slams her fists into the ground, metal first, fighting back tears; _sin miedo, sin miedo, sin miedo..._

_Logan…_

One more dry heave and she’s back to shaking, but at least she can feel her body starting to recover. The claws recede, leaving red scars that burn. Laura sits back, wiping a hand across her mouth. When she feels like she can open her eyes without getting dizzy, she realizes she doesn’t know where she is.

Her ears pick up on the sound of a car coming down the road. Laura scrambles to her feet but instantly lands back in the mud, her legs unable to support her weakened state. The car gets closer, its headlights shining in her face, and she squeezes her eyes shut while wishing for Logan.

_Logan…_

The lights suddenly disappear and the world becomes dark again, but Laura doesn’t open her eyes. She can’t open her eyes. She curls in on herself as the motor of the car shudders to a stop, then hears the sound of a door opening and soft footsteps treading on the dirt.

“Hello?”

It’s a male voice, unfamiliar, and it doesn’t sound like a Reaver but she can’t be sure. Trust wasn’t something that was given out freely. She counts silently in her head, trying to keep herself from attacking in case it was an unnecessary kill.

_Uno...dos...trois. Quatro...cinco...seis. Siete --_

“Hey, are you alright?”

Something in the man’s voice sounds familiar. Softer. Trusting.

Dad-like.

_Logan…_

“Hey.” The voice keeps its gentle tone as it gets closer. “I just want to make sure you’re not hurt or anything. I’m not going to touch you. I swear.”

Did someone know that she didn’t want to be touched? Did this person -- whoever he was -- know Logan? Did Logan tell someone on the other side of the border to take care of her? Her throat closes up against her will, the metal inside of her throbbing as it crawls towards her knuckles and toes, and she wants to scream.

_Logan…_

Laura forces her eyes open, staring up at the man in front of her. It’s not Logan, but it could be -- he has the same rugged face, the same hard eyes, the same creases along his jaw that tell a story no one else would be able to see. He frowns and crouches down, reaching forward. Laura recoils instantly, but the man doesn’t startle or look disturbed.

“These yours?”

Laura looks over at his hands; he’s holding her plastic sunglasses. She grabs them, shoving them back on her face, despite the darkness already surrounding her. The man frowns again, then starts making letters with his fingers. Laura recognizes them because she learned sign language once upon a time, but she shakes her head and signs back before she can stop herself.

_Don’t._

The man’s brows crease, and he tilts his head. “Sorry. I thought -- sign language. You can understand me?”

Laura nods slowly, and the man’s mouth lifts in a small smile.

“Okay. Do you know where you are?”

Laura swallows and feels her claws retract.

“Do you know your name?”

_Laura. Me nombre es Laura. Laura. Me nombre es Laura. Laura._

“Me nombre es Laura,” she mumbles, hiding her face behind her hair.

“Okay,” the man repeats. He’s fully sitting on the ground now, apparently unaware of how dirty he’s going to be when he gets up. “Hi, Laura. I’m Clint. You’re in Iowa, in a town called Waverly.”

Iowa. How did she even _get_ to Iowa? She was supposed to be in Canada. That was the last thing she remembered -- crossing the border, Logan’s death…. _Logan_. She’s so confused, she doesn’t even try to comprehend that the man -- Clint -- understands Spanish with no problem.

_Logan….border….Canada._

_Sin miedo._

“Do you know how you got here?”

She should talk to him -- she could talk to him -- but something is holding her back. Clint waits patiently until it’s clear she’s not going to respond.

“If you’re okay with it, I’d like you to come with me and come to my house,” he continues in a soft voice. “I can get you cleaned up and maybe give you some new clothes. Do you trust me to help you with that?” Clint holds out his hand, and Laura stares at it. If she takes it, will he notice her bloodied knuckles? Will he say anything?

“Me duele.”

He doesn’t ask her what hurts, but he does put his hand down.

“Not going to hurt you. I swear.”

She gets up and sways on her feet, thrown off by her own balance and the shift of the road; he steadies her without asking to touch her, but his hold is gentle. She notices he looks down at her hands but he doesn’t say anything about the blood covering her skin, even though his mouth makes a shape that implies he wants to ask.

Clint leads her to the car and opens the door, letting her climb inside. She twists around in the passenger seat to take in her surroundings -- she’s always done that, she’s always been cognizant of survival, of where she is and how to adapt. What she does see puzzles her. There’s a car seat in the back, which is filled with baby toys like plastic rings and books; next to it is a pair of dirty shoes, a few bright folders, a hockey stick, and a few canvas bags of groceries. When she turns back around, she notices there’s a large travel mug of stale coffee sitting in the cupholder and that she’s sitting on a pink hair tie, and that the mats beneath her feet smell like dried chocolate.

Clint gets in the driver’s seat and smiles apologetically, turning the key in the ignition.

Laura’s asleep by the time they start to drive.

 

***

 

After that, there’s bits and pieces, and they float through her brain somewhere between feeling like a dream and a flashback, moments peppered with kindness that she hasn’t experienced since meeting Logan and Charles.

Clint helps her out of the car and walks her into a large farm house, a place shrouded in warmth and comfort, a place standing alone in the middle of the world, a steady visual against her anxiety and tilting axis of a universe. She takes off her sunglasses when she gets inside, but still avoids both talking and eye contact. A brown-haired woman with a kind face and sweet smile gives her a towel to wipe the mud off her skin and clean clothes that are slightly too big, showing her the bathroom. Laura changes quickly while the woman respectfully waits outside. When she emerges, clutching her dirty clothes tightly in her arms, she’s pointed towards a room, and she shakes her head. It feels strange to be in a bed. She wants something that feels more familiar, like the ground, or the couch. Somehow, Clint seems to understand, asking if she wants to nap downstairs before she can even try to find the words.

Neither of them ask her about the blood on her hands.

As she starts to pass out again on the couch, curled into the torn upholstery and overstuffed pillow, she hears faint voices coming from somewhere close to her.

“Don’t know...can’t...her.”

“Just like….remember Natasha?”

“...while driving…leave her, okay?”

Laura slips in and out of consciousness, trying to ignore the voices as much as she can. When she wakes up for a second time, her throat is dry and she still feels disoriented, but she does feel a little more alert. She sits up slowly, noticing that she’s left some blood and dirt on the couch cushion. She prods at the mess, trying her best to clean it up, before getting to her feet and walking slowly into the kitchen. Clint is sitting at the table holding a baby who looks small enough to have been just born, but big enough that it’s more of a person than a bean. He looks up in surprise as Laura shuffles in.

“Hey, there you are. Laura, right?”

She nods. “Yes.”

Clint blinks a few times and adjusts the baby on his legs. “You speak English?”

Laura nods again. “Yes.”

Clint chuckles under his breath. “Good. My spanish is kind of rusty, to be honest, so I was hoping I didn’t have to keep it up. You want some tea? Food?”

“Yes.”

Clint gets up carefully and places the baby in the high chair next to the table. He pours some herbal lavender tea, which Laura recognizes instantly by the smell, and then puts a few slices of bread on a plate.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked,” Clint offers, putting the mug and plate on the table and then walking to the fridge. “Butter or cream cheese or….le mermelada.”

Laura can’t help but smile as Clint places all three cartons on the table. She fingers the strawberry jam, which is in one of those little glass jars and adorned with a neat green bow, like it’s come from a farmer’s market or something. She considers the meal before her -- it’s been so long and she can still see the table, she can still hear the conversation, her and Charles and Logan, smiling and laughing and for the first time she had felt warm inside and outside -- and then she starts eating rabidly.

“So, uh.” Clint sits back down and looks at the baby, who is waving his small fists around, before turning his attention over to her. “You still don’t know how you got here?”

“I crossed a border,” she manages to say through chewed-up bread. She takes her mug and sips slowly, wrapping her hands around the faded portrait of a unicorn with a rainbow horn.

“Huh.” Clint reaches for his own mug, a large white cup with an owl on it that has _hoot morning_ scrawled across the side in messy cursive. “How?”

It’s a simple question, but Laura realizes she doesn’t know the answer. She tries to think about what she remembers, but all she can see is Logan and blood and death.

“I don’t know.”

Clint sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sigh, it’s a sigh that sounds sad and resigned. “My wife -- the woman who you met earlier -- she wanted to know if you would be comfortable taking a shower, once you were awake and had eaten something. We think you might feel better.”

“Si,” Laura says quietly, sipping her tea, still unsure what to do with this gentle kindness. The baby makes a squealing noise as he picks up a cheerio and drops it on the floor, the very definition of defiance in a wordless way. Laura tries to figure out why this place that she doesn’t even know feels like more of a home than she’s had with anyone, except for Charles and Logan, and all of that seems like it happened decades ago.

 

***

 

Clint sets Laura up in the bathroom with a towel, permission to use whatever soap or body wash she needs, and instructions to yell if something happens. While she showers, he lets Nate finish breakfast, and then takes the baby upstairs for a changing and to talk to his wife, who is folding laundry while listening to a podcast through their bluetooth speaker.

“How is she?” Laura presses a button to stop the talking that Clint realizes is the education channel of NPR.

“Showering,” Clint responds, putting Nate down on the bed and letting him roll around happily, chubby cheeks pressing into the covers. “I hope.” He inclines his head in the direction of the bathroom, letting his hearing aids pick up the faint hum of water. If she wasn’t showering, at least she was pretending to. He sits down on the bed, and Laura gives him a small smile.

“You know, I fully support your habit of picking up strays,” Laura says, sitting down and thumbing over a scar on his cheek. “You know I do. But bringing home one with my name seems a little over the top, even for you.”

Clint tries to smile back. “I told you. I couldn’t leave her. She needed someone.”

“I know,” Laura says simply. “But you don’t even know where she’s from, Clint. She said she doesn’t remember how she got here. What if she’s on the run, or in danger?”

“And I’m not equipped to protect her?” Clint asks pointedly, looking at where his bow is stashed in the back of the closet. “ _You’re_ not?”

“Of course you are. _We_ are,” Laura amends. “But I don’t mean it in that way. This isn’t even like Natasha, Clint. You have no connection with this girl. And I don’t know --”

“Look, I have _something_ ,” Clint says, getting up and shoving his hands into his pockets. “I can’t explain it, but she’s used to having someone like me around; I can tell. Some sort of father figure, some kind of authority figure who understands that she’s --”

“Alone?”

Clint exhales slowly. “Dangerous,” he says after a careful minute. Laura raises an eyebrow.

“Her hands.”

“I haven’t asked,” Clint continues. “But I think you know that no matter where she came from, she’s got a story.”

Laura looks down and watches Nathaniel pull himself onto his stomach by using the rumpled bedsheets. The baby immediately grins, as if he’s way too proud of his accomplishment.

“Well, at least the kids are at school for awhile longer,” she says. “We don’t have to explain just yet why there’s a strange girl in our house who looks like she should be friends with Lila.”

“Lila’s probably the one best equipped to help out of all of us,” Clint mutters. “Look, just make sure she’s okay if she comes out of the bathroom and stuff? I need to make a phone call.”

Laura gives him a look. “Are you seriously kicking me out of my own bedroom? In the middle of laundry?”

“ _Our_ bedroom,” Clint corrects, reaching for the baby and making sure he doesn’t roll off the bed. Laura leans over to kiss him before getting up.

“You’re making dinner,” she informs him as she walks out of the room. “And no opting out with delivery like last week.”

Clint makes a face that he knows she doesn’t see because she’s already left the room. He gets up and paces a few times, and then pulls out his cell phone.

_Hey, it’s me. U up for Skype?_

Five minutes later, his phone lights up, and he situates Nathaniel in his portable bouncer so that he can talk without worrying about his own child hurting himself.

“Clint?” Wanda’s voice sounds more husky than usual and Clint realizes it’s because it must be the middle of the night where she is. Somewhere in Sokovia, he theorizes as he squints, trying to get a read on her surroundings in the dark.

“Hey, sorry...what time is it there?”

Wanda yawns and drags a hand over her mouth. “Sometime after two. It is okay. I was not sleeping anyway.”

“Everything okay?”

“It is what I should ask you, because you are calling me in the morning,” Wanda points out smartly. “Is Laura okay?”

 _Which one?_ “Yeah. Uh, I just...I need your help.”

“Clint.” Wanda’s more awake now, leaning into the phone. “What is wrong?”

“I met someone today, and she’s…” He trails off, unsure of how to continue. “I think she’s like you.”

Wanda stares at the screen in puzzlement. “Like me?”

“I don’t know how I know,” Clint admits, feeling foolish. “But I just feel like she’s different in a way that I’m not really familiar with. And I don’t think she’s going to hurt me, but I don’t want her to hurt herself or someone else if I don’t know what to do with her.”

“I see,” Wanda says, her voice curious. “How did you meet her?”

Clint clears his throat. “I was running some errands, and she just kinda...appeared. On the side of the road. She was disoriented and confused, like she came out of nowhere. I damn near almost ran her over, Wanda.”

Wanda’s brows knit together. “Did you ask her where she came from?”

“Yeah,” Clint answers. “Tried that. She’s got no idea. I mean, she’s lucky she even knows her name at this point.”

“Maybe she is from one of the farms nearby,” Wanda suggests, though she doesn’t sound any more convinced of her words than Clint is.

“Maybe. But I’m not sending her back out there until I know where she’s from and how I can help her, so I need you to just...can you do some work on this? Please? For me?”

Wanda sighs and looks at something Clint can’t see. “I am supposed to finish making arrangements for Pietro.”

“I know,” Clint, his gut clenching with guilt. “But --”

“But you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t think it was important,” Wanda finishes. “I know, Clint. It is okay. I will do this for you.”

“Thanks,” Clint says gratefully, even though he’s not sure _what_ Wanda actually plans to do. He figures it’ll be better than whatever research he can pull up, though.

“Do not mention it. I will call you when I figure things out. But now I need to try to sleep.”

Clint laughs. “Yeah, you do. Go sleep. I’ll tell Nate you said hi.”

“Good.”

Wanda hangs up, replaced by a darkened screen. Clint stares at his reflection, noting the lines that look too prominent on his face, and rubs his middle finger against the most recent scar he’s gotten from helping Cooper build his treehouse.

He leans back against the pillow and closes his eyes, wondering why Laura feels so much like someone he needs to protect. And how, of all places, she ended up here.

 

***

 

When Laura is clean and dressed again, this time in a combination of Lila and Cooper’s clothes, Clint realizes how much she looks like a normal girl who might come over to the farm and play with his kids, as opposed to an obviously scared child who might be on the run from something deadly. With her hair brushed and her bruises covered and a hint of a smile that comes more easily after Clint asks if she wants some books to read, she gives off an air of innocence, though the bruises on her knuckles still remain -- a stark reminder that she’s not as innocent as she seems.

She eats dinner with the family, after being introduced to Cooper and Lila when they come home from school. Cooper accepts her with little wariness, and Clint gives silent thanks to the fact that his son is somewhat used to the unorthodox ways of his life by now. Lila, for her part, is predictably excited about having someone in the house that looks like she could be her new best friend, so Clint takes the initiative to pull her aside while they’re sorting vegetables for dinner.

“We have a visitor who is daddy’s friend,” Clint explains, trying to keep things as simple as possible, because his daughter never stopped asking questions once she was intrigued about something. “Her name is Laura.”

Lila’s grin widens. “Like mommy?”

“Yes,” Clint says. “Like mommy. But she’s a little shy, so I don’t want you to ask her too many questions. Okay?”

Lila considers this, and then nods. “Okay, daddy.”

Most of dinner is normal, in as much as Clint can consider Cooper refusing to eat his vegetables and Nate screaming his head off “normal.” Laura regretfully offers apologies, before excusing herself to bring the crying baby upstairs, and orders Cooper and Lila to follow.

“You know, I was on my own once,” Clint starts when they’re left alone in the kitchen. Laura looks up from her salad, still mostly uneaten, dark stringy hair falling into her eyes.

“Si?”

“You wanna know why?”

“Yes,” Laura answers, and Clint’s not sure whether she’s using English because she’s realized she’s spoken another language, or if it’s because being bilingual, she was used to switching on and off.

“I ran away from home,” Clint continues, watching Laura’s eyes. “I had a pretty bad family life, and I didn’t like my dad. He scared me. So I ran away, and never looked back. I was found by a family who took me in for awhile, and then I joined the circus.” He mimes shooting a bow and arrow, and Laura giggles. Clint returns the laugh, unable to help himself.

“Yeah, I was a bit of a showman,” Clint says with a shrug. “Stole a lot, too. Minimal things, mostly. Gum, candy, cigarettes. Underwear. That kind of stuff. Nothing big to get me in trouble, but just to keep myself going.”

“Food,” Laura says, gesturing to her plate. “ _Comida_.”

“Food, huh? Yeah, well. You need to eat. I can’t blame you.”

Laura looks down at her salad bowl and Clint finds himself once again staring at the marks on her hands, because there’s a thought in the back of his mind that he’s been mulling over, even if it seems ridiculous. He clears his throat as she picks up her fork.

“Hey, so --”

His cell phone vibrates in his pocket before he can continue. Knowing only three people have that number and that one of them is in the house with him, Clint picks it up. It’s a blocked number, but then again, either Natasha or Wanda would be calling from one.

“Clint, I found something on the girl that you called me about,” Wanda says without saying hello.

Clint glances at Laura as she continues to examine her fork, before spearing a piece of broccoli with a little too much glee -- an action that reminds him of Natasha’s early days. “Yeah?” He keeps his voice light, so as not to alarm Laura that she’s being talked about, because he knows as well as anyone how scared little girls reacted to thinking they were being watched for another agenda. He gets up easily and walks over to the counter, leaning on his elbows as he shoves the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“Shoot,” he says, lowering his voice. “What did you find?”

“I saw something,” Wanda answers.

Clint furrows his brow, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean, you saw something?”

“The mind stone,” Wanda explains. “I am still connected to it, from Ultron. It allows me to see through the multiverse. When you said you did not know where this girl came from, I thought I would see if there was somewhere to start.”

“Okay,” Clint mutters. “And?”

“She is not from here.”

Clint snorts quietly. “No shit, Wanda.”

“No,” Wanda continues and Clint can almost see her rolling her eyes. “I mean, she is not _from_ here, Clint. She must have traveled through a portal or something similar that allowed her to arrive here, in Iowa. She is from somewhere else. The last person she was with was Wolverine. She crossed a border into Canada and that is the last thing I was able to see.”

As soon as Wanda says the words, everything slots into place in a realization that almost makes him recoil -- the blood on Laura’s hand, the confused state of mind, the fear and ultimate need to trust someone who might be just a little bit older and wiser. _Wolverine_. He’d thought something was off about her, in a strange way. It’s why he’d called Wanda, because he’d had a gut feeling he wasn’t just dealing with a runaway. But he’d never considered...

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses into the phone. “Is she…”

“A mutant?” Wanda asks pointedly. Clint makes a face at the window.

“I was gonna ask if she was like you, but I wasn’t gonna call you names or anything.”

“Yes,” Wanda says, ignoring Clint’s sarcasm. “I would assume that she is a mutant, and that she may be like him. But I cannot be sure. I can only see where she came from before she came here. I would have to come there to see into her mind to know anything else. And I do not know if she would want me to do that.”

“Courteous,” Clint mutters, thinking of the salvage yard in Wakanda. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying to put everything together. “Okay. That’s a start, at least. Thanks, Wanda.”

“You are welcome.” There’s a smile hidden in Wanda’s words, and Clint likes that he can tell. He hadn’t seen her as much as he’d wanted to since Sokovia; Nathaniel had kept him busy and fatherhood in general had kept him more busy, and he’d needed so much recovery time after Ultron and Pietro that he’d stayed away from the fight longer than he intended to. Clint hangs up and puts the phone into his pocket. He turns around and panics briefly when he finds an empty table and Laura nowhere to be found, but when he walks into the living room, he finds her staring at their large wall of books, which include Laura’s medical journals from nursing school and also a few of Cooper’s large picture books and chapter YAs.

“You, uh. You like to read, right?” He remembers the books he had given her when she first arrived, and Laura wraps her arms around her chest.

“Stories help me,” she says quietly. “I always liked reading them.”

“I get that.” Clint walks over and scours the shelf, frowning slightly as he looks through them. He finally picks out a collection of Pablo Neruda’s work.

“It’s not really a story, but I’ve always really liked poetry,” Clint explains, handing her the book. “I guess I find it comforting. Sometimes you can make your own story out of the words, you know? Write your own ending.”

Laura takes the book and immediately starts flipping through it, flopping down on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. Clint watches her savor the book voraciously.

“Poesía española!” Laura exclaims excitedly, looking up with bright eyes, and Clint realizes it’s the most excited she’s been since he met her. He laughs and leans back against the wall, feeling the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes become more prominent as he thinks about the blood on her knuckles. This kid, whoever she was, if she _did_ have Wolverine’s adamantium inside her, did that mean she had the same type of powers? And if so, how did she even get them? He suddenly realizes Laura’s staring back at him.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Sorry. You, uh.” He tries to figure out how not to lie, because he has a feeling she’s the type of person who would absolutely call him out on his bullshit, even though she was years younger. “You just remind me of someone I know.”

Laura smiles sadly and closes the book, and Clint thinks she might be trying not to cry. “You remind me of someone, also.”

 

***

 

Clint doesn’t sleep, and for once, it’s not because he’s become accustomed to waking up every hour in case Nate is crying or just being a general middle-of-the-night brat. He’s more than aware of Laura sleeping downstairs, and he can’t help himself from getting out of bed to check on her, even if he realizes it’s somewhat creepy.

“Clint,” Laura mumbles from the bed. “She’ll be okay. She needs to sleep.”

“ _You_ were the one who told me you didn’t know where she came from and needed to be cautious,” Clint mumbles back after his fifth trip down the hall.

“And you told me Wanda found out she was,” Laura responds sleepily, not opening her eyes.

“Yeah, she’s a fucking mutant,” Clint says, now more awake. “Like Wolverine. Possibly _really_ like Wolverine. That kind of stuff doesn’t scare you?”

Laura groans and shoves a pillow over her face. “You brought gods and super soldiers into our house. I’m over it.”

It’s an accurate enough statement, even though he knows that Steve and Tony and Bruce aren’t the same as having someone in the house who could engage violently. But something about her answer settles Clint enough so that he can fall back asleep, at least until a harsh screaming cry that Clint’s sleep-addled brain identifies as “diaper change” wakes him up. It’s already five at that point, so he stays up and brews a huge pot of coffee and starts breakfast, while Laura wakes Cooper and Lila and gets them ready for school.

Laura sleeps through it all, even as the kids make all the noise in the world coming down the stairs, and Clint tries not to be concerned as they go through morning rituals -- Lila’s heart shaped pancakes, Cooper’s daily whining about not wanting to go to “dumb boring classes,” Clint’s five minutes of updates on the world via alerts on his iPhone and funneling of coffee in the precious amounts of time he has between packing lunches and putting on coats. When Laura finally leaves to drive morning carpool, Clint lets out a sigh of relief at the silence. He takes it one step further, removing his hearing aids while he cleans up the kitchen. When he turns around to grab dirty plates from the table, he catches a glimpse of tangled brown hair in his vision.

“Oh, shit.” He fumbles for his aids and sticks them back in. “Sorry. I do that sometimes...take my aids out so I can’t hear anything. Bad habit.” He smiles apologetically. “How’d you sleep?”

Laura looks at the floor. “Okay.”

“Okay is better than nothing,” Clint decides. “Breakfast?”

Laura slides into the chair as Clint grabs a leftover plate of pancakes he’s saved and puts it in the microwave for twenty seconds before setting in front of her.

“So my wife took the kids to school,” Clint says, watching her devour the pancakes with little care for the mess she’s making. “I figured maybe I could take you out for a little bit -- there’s a bookstore in town, and a few places to eat, and, I dunno...maybe it would be good to get out of the house. But only if you’re comfortable,” he hurries on, watching the expression on Laura’s face shift from interest to trepidation to hesitancy. He can almost see the thoughts running through her head as her brain struggles to decide whether she should continue to trust him.

“Can we go get Pringles?”

Clint blinks in surprise. “Uh...sure.” He glances towards the pantry. “Want me to check if we have some, just in case? I never know what our shopping lists end up looking like. I’ve been banned from doing it myself, because I bring home too many things we don’t need.”

Laura giggles again, and Clint figures if nothing else, he’s at least he’s found one person besides his kids who will laugh at his bad dad jokes.

“Whaddya say?” He eyes Laura and holds up his hand for a high-five. “Pringles and books?”

“Pringles y libros,” Laura agrees, raising her hand and meeting his palm. Clint tries not to look at the scars across her knuckles, the stains that seem to be embedded in her skin even after multiple showers and hand washings.

An hour or so later, after Clint has showered and dressed and texted his whereabouts to his wife, he gets in the car and drives into town with Laura sitting next to him. The young girl rolls down the window of the minivan without asking, sticking her arm on the window and letting her hair blow in the cold wind as she puts on her pink plastic sunglasses. Clint looks over and cracks a small smile at the sight. As much as Laura could be potentially volatile, much like Natasha, he can see enough of her to know there’s someone worth knowing -- and by default, worth saving, even though he doesn’t like thinking of people as things to be _saved_. Often, he gravitated towards people who just needed a push, like Natasha or Wanda. He always had.

Laura stays quiet for much of the drive, and Clint spends his time going over grocery lists and considering where to go first. He finally decides that the bookstore can wait, but more coffee (and snacks) can’t. He parks in one of the emptier lots, and as they walk down the sidewalk towards town, Laura -- not looking at where she’s going -- bumps into a punk kid with a tall red mohawk.

“Fucking watch where you’re going, girl!”

She looks up in surprise as the kid snarls, and Clint protectively takes her arm, slipping his own sunglasses down his nose to acknowledge the kid.

“Sorry, man.”

“Asshole father,” the kid mutters, glaring heavily. He pushes past them, and everything after that seems to happen in slow motion.

Laura stays frozen in place, and when Clint turns to see why she’s not moving, he notices a fire in her eyes that burns -- the same fire that would appear in Natasha’s eyes when she had episodes that tripped her back into her programming, the same fire that would appear in Wanda’s eyes when she was controlled by Ultron. Laura screams, two sharp adamantium claws sprouting from her knuckles, and in an instant, the innocent, giggling girl Clint has gotten to know over the past 48 hours is replaced with a violent machine. She lunges forward, claws out, and everyone around them starts to run.

The screams bring Clint out of his stupor. He reaches forward to grab Laura around the waist, but that only makes her twist and scream more, and Clint feels instant pain as her claws slash into his arms and down his wrists. He grits his teeth as blood spurts noisily, running down his skin in heavy lines, soaking his thin flannel shirt.

“Laura!” Clint yells. He grips her harder and she struggles more, and he arches his neck back to avoid his face being ripped open by her claws. “Laura, _stop_!”

She doesn’t seem to hear him, and Clint groans as the pain intensifies. _Fuck this_ , he thinks angrily, as she continues to scream and attack in his grip. _I didn’t fight fucking gods and spend years fighting a brainwashed Russian to be taken down by a little mutant girl._ Laura tumbles out of his arms and ends up on the ground, claws digging into the pavement. Her face is a mask of rage and she looks up at Clint, defiant; Clint recognizes the way her body is tensing, knowing she’s preparing to attack.

“Laura! Mi mire usted!”

Laura lunges, jumping at him, and Clint manages to roll out of the way so that she lands on nothing except the curb. He tackles her and pulls her back, squeezing her so tightly she can’t help but quiet her screams.

“Mi mire usted, mi mire usted, mi mire usted,” he whispers in her ear while the crowd murmurs behind him. And suddenly, Laura is mostly limp in his hold, her brown hair spilling over her bent head in the same way that blood is spilling down his arms. Two uniformed police officers push through the thick crowd, and one of them reaches down.

“Hey!” Clint barks. “Hey, don’t -- she’s with me, don’t you dare touch her!”

The police ignore him, pulling Laura away. There’s a feral look in her eyes, but more than that, there’s terror and fear. Clint’s own temper and protective rage flares as if it’s a fire that’s been stoked.

“Get off of her!” he roars, stumbling to his feet as Laura’s taken from him. The high-pitched squeal of an ambulance sounds from somewhere behind him and he thinks he hears Laura yell his name before spots start to appear in front of his eyes.

 

***

 

The hospital reminds her too much of the room where she was experimented on. When Laura opens her eyes and realizes she’s in a bed that she doesn’t recognize with beeping machines around her body and bright lights above her head, she immediately panics. Struggling for breath, she thrashes in bed, trying to figure out where she is and how she can get out.

_Logan…_

“You really did a number on him. And on yourself.”

Laura turns to see a girl with red hair styled in soft curls sitting beside her. She’s momentarily confused, until she turns in the other direction and sees Clint, passed out with his head tilted uncomfortably to the side. White bandages are dotting his arm, and Laura recognizes the wounds from where she’s slashed him.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says quietly, looking down at her own bandaged hands. She can feel her claws tingling and pulsating painfully against her skin but she can’t stop the water that’s pooling in her eyes. As soon as she blinks, the dam breaks.

“Trust me,” says the girl with the red hair. “I understand. I was a little murder bot, once. Did the same thing to him, but I didn’t have claws.”

Laura looks up in surprise, and the redhead shrugs.

“I still hurt him badly enough that he had to go to the hospital, though. Can I sit down?”

Laura doesn’t answer. The girl takes that as an invitation to sit down anyway, and perches on the side of the hospital bed while opening a canvas bag. “Someone told me you liked pringles,” she says with a smile, handing out the circular cannister. Laura smiles back tentatively and then takes it with shaking hands.

“Laura, right?”

“Si,” Laura whispers, shoving a chip into her mouth. She wishes she had her sunglasses to hide her eyes.

“Me nombre es Natasha,” the girl says. “Soy un amigo de Clint.”

Laura scratches the bandages on her arm. “He did not want me to be what they made me.”

“Who?” Natasha asks curiously. “Clint?”

“No,” Laura answers, her voice tinged with sadness. “My father.”

“And you think that’s going to make a difference to Clint?”

Laura looks at Natasha, feeling the rage build up inside her at the senseless question. Logan had been like her. Logan had been different. Logan had understood. Clint was nice, she felt comfortable with him, but he wasn’t her father. He hadn’t been through what she had been through.

 _Logan_...

“Okay,” Natasha says, putting her hand on Laura’s arm. The gentle sensation of soft fingers against her scarred skin allows the metal inside her to relax. “Here’s the thing about Clint. See how he’s passed out right there? That’s because even though you attacked him, he wouldn’t leave you. He cares about you. He might not know everything about you, but he’s not going to leave you because you tried to kill him. Take my word for it.” She reaches into her bag again and pulls out a chocolate pudding cup.

“I will make him leave me,” Laura decides, taking the pudding cup from Natasha and ripping off the cover. She sticks a finger inside and starts licking, and Natasha smiles thinly.

“I tried that. You’d be surprised at how much he’ll fight for you.” Natasha pauses, and Laura finishes the pudding, dropping the container on the covers of the hospital bed.

“It is all the same,” Laura says, wiping her mouth. “Killing. You can’t stop it.”

“No,” Natasha agrees. “You can’t. But your father was right. You don’t have to become what they made you. You can be someone else.” She takes a pringle from the open box. “It happened to me.”

“People I love died because I could not leave,” Laura protests.

“Yes,” Natasha says, her tone almost too conversational. “Me, too.”

Laura grits her teeth. “No. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t?” Natasha raises an eyebrow and Laura bites down on her bottom lip, small teeth sinking into soft skin and drawing blood.

“I feel like a bomb. An emotional bomb.”

“Well.” Natasha runs a hand through her hair. “ _That_ I can understand.”

 

***

 

Truth be told, things had been a literal mess when Natasha had arrived in Iowa. Wanda had contacted her with the information she’d found out about Laura, the information she’d gleaned through the mind stone. Natasha had taken it upon herself to visit, knowing exactly how Clint would be reacting to this mutant girl who dropped into his life out of nowhere, harboring almost the same past and issues that he dealt with once upon a time when he brought _her_ home. She’d been surprised to find no one at the farm and had made herself at home the way she was used to doing whenever she visited randomly. But when a phone call from the police station alerted her to the fact Clint and Laura had been involved in “a violent fight” and taken to the local ER, she had dropped the flask she’d been filling with the good bourbon and taken a cab to the hospital.

“Kids are gonna ask,” Clint mutters after he signs off on their release, Natasha driving the car that she had picked up from the town’s parking lot. The bandages on his arms are itchy and his scars ache, despite the painkillers he’d been given, but Laura hasn’t let go of his hand since they left, and now that she’s fallen asleep again, he feels like he can’t really move.

“You tell them work stuff came up, and you had a little accident,” Natasha replies smoothly. Clint makes a face.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna fly. I’m not out in the field again, and they know it.”

“They don’t know who you can run into at any given moment,” Natasha replies. She glances in the rearview mirror. “Anyway, I called Laura and told her what happened.”

“Alright,” Clint says in a low voice. He doesn’t bother to wonder whether or not Laura will be able to stay; after Natasha, his wife understood better than most what it meant to take in someone who needed to be shown kindness. What he _is_ worried about is figuring out what the hell to do with Laura in general, since he has a sinking feeling she can’t stay here. It wasn’t like they could adopt her the way they had “adopted” Natasha.

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice is pointed and sharp, despite the fact she hasn’t raised it in volume. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t ask how she knows what he’s thinking, because it’s Natasha, and he sometimes thinks she knows him better than he knows himself. Instead, he looks down at Laura, who is slumped against his shoulder. Clint brushes hair back from her face.

“She’s just a girl,” Clint murmurs. “I can’t even imagine how much she’s seen.”

Natasha remains silent as they continue to drive. “She’s got a long life ahead of her,” she says finally. “She’s young, and she can still make things good for herself. Especially if she learns now, and from the right people.” There’s a hint of bitterness in her voice that Clint tries to ignore.

“Did you talk to Wanda?”

“A little.” Natasha steers the car onto the long road that leads to the farm. “She told me what I assume she told you. But without coming here and doing whatever mind reading thing she does, she can’t really know anything else.” Natasha’s eyes dart towards his left. “Or she’s gotta talk.”

Laura mumbles something in Spanish in her sleep, and Clint frowns.

“She might not want to.”

“Then we might not be able to help,” Natasha says. Clint snorts quietly, and the action burns his throat.

“Rich, coming from you.”

Natasha glares daggers at him. “My past and our history is irrelevant,” she all but hisses. “She’s different, Clint. And she’s eleven years old. I was twenty-two. I had been in the Red Room for years. I had grown up in that environment.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “I know. But what I saw when she attacked like that? She may be eleven, but she’s basically you. She’s seriously about as intense and, uh --”

“Talented?” Natasha supplies, her lips quirking playfully.

“Driven,” Clint shoots back, and this time it’s Natasha who snorts.

“I guess that’s one way to describe being bred to kill.”

 

***

 

Laura wakes up before they get home, and mumbles an apology in Spanish for the second time since they’ve left the hospital.

“Look, it’s okay,” Clint assures her. “I promise. Amigos, yeah?”

“Amigos,” Laura repeats, getting out of the car and pulling off her bandages. She leaves them in a heap on the car floor and Clint’s not surprised to see that she’s already healed from the wounds she gave herself. He tries to ignore the hint of jealousy, because maybe it was the fact that he was the most human of all the Avengers, or the fact that he got hurt more often than most people, but he always resented that Cap and even Tony had the ability to heal more quickly. Clint follows Laura inside, and is immediately met by his children -- who bypass him and run straight for Natasha.

“Oh come the fuck on,” Clint mutters as Cooper and Lila attach themselves to Natasha’s legs and waist. He finds the only thing that’s positive about this situation is that they don’t bother to pay attention to the bandages on his arm. Laura looks up at him questioningly.

“They don’t see her much,” he tries to explain as Natasha scoops Lila up. It’s a lie so well-crafted, he almost believes it himself. “Come on, we’ll get you something to eat.”

Laura follows Clint into the kitchen, but stops short when she sees Clint’s wife stirring soup on the stove. Immediately, she attempts to bolt towards the door that leads to the backyard, but Clint keeps his grip on her arm, rooting her in place while praying that her claws won’t come out again.

“No one’s mad at you,” Clint assures her as Laura looks up fearfully. “Promise.”

“He’s right.” Laura Barton turns around and wipes her hands on her jeans, smearing minestrone across the denim. “In this family, we all make mistakes. Some mistakes are worse than others, and we deal with them. But we don’t get angry about making mistakes.” She nods towards the table. “Sit down and have some soup. And maybe later, we’ll have some ice cream.”

Laura looks like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s being told, but she sits down anyway, playing with her hands. Clint surveys the scene before him and then heads back to the living room, where Natasha has finally managed to pry his children off of her body.

“Clint.” Natasha bends down to hug Lila once more before giving her a gentle shove towards the stairs. “We have to talk.”

“I thought we did talk,” Clint reminds her, flopping down on the couch. He pulls a pillow over his chest and closes his eyes, and feels the cushion dip as Natasha sits next to him. He gives her a moment to pull her feet up (he knows she will) and then opens his eyes.

“What?”

“When we were in the hospital, Wanda said something. She mentioned her father.”

“So she’s got a dad,” Clint says, unable to pinpoint why the realization makes him feel wistful. It wasn’t like he could adopt her or anything, anyway.

“It’s not that she has a dad,” Natasha says. “It’s the way she said it. Her exact quote to me was, ‘he did not want me to be what they made me.’”

“So?” Clint asks, closing his eyes again. He can hear conversation in the kitchen, and a small giggle.

“Think about it,” Natasha says, her voice dripping with impatience. “Come on, Hawkeye.”

It takes him a little bit, all things considered -- he’s hopped up on painkillers; not drugged enough to make him loopy but drugged enough that his usually sharp senses are dulled. So when his brain does lightbulb on what Natasha is saying, he almost falls off the couch.

“Oh,” he says, glancing at the kitchen. “ _Oh_. You’re not -- you mean the _Wolverine_ is her _father_?”

“Was,” Natasha corrects. “I called Wanda back before you woke up and asked her to use the mind stone again, to see if she could find out anything else based on what she said. According to her, he died before Laura got over the border.”

Clint’s head spins and he shoves his forehead into his hands. “So she’s an orphan. And Wolverine is dead. And -- jesus, Nat, what the hell is going on?”

“Clint, consider she came through a portal. She might have even come from another year. Another time period, maybe.”

Clint leans back, flattening out on the couch. “We gotta ask her.”

“Do we?”

Natasha’s giving him a look that could melt ice. Clint knows the answer. He knows Natasha knows the answer, which is why she’s asking him, because she wants him to agree with her, because she wants him to know they’re on the same page. And yet…

He shakes his head, listening to another laugh filter out from the kitchen. “We either send her back to a world where she’ll be alone, or we teach her how to defend herself, and --”

“And what?” Natasha interrupts, leaning against her palm. “She stays here, in this time? She lives with you? She joins the Avengers? We don’t even know if someone will come looking for her, Clint. At least if she’s back in her own time, she knows where to go and she knows other people.”

She’s right. Natasha’s always been right, the complementary part of his brain that applies logic to his immediate instinct to help people, no matter what the cost. But that doesn’t change the fact that he wants her to stay.

“I don’t want to leave her alone.”

“Believe me, I know,” Natasha says gently. “I’m all for letting her stay here so we can talk to her, and so she can feel a little comfortable. But no matter what happens, you _need_ to bring it up.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, trying to ignore another bout of laughter that pierces his heart. “I know.”

 

***

 

After dinner, Clint takes Laura out into the yard and points to a large oak tree.

“Show me your claws.”

“Por que?”

“Because I want to see them,” Clint answers.

Laura swallows and then flexes her fingers, and Clint watches as the adamantium blades slice through her skin like magic.

“Now what?” Laura asks almost sarcastically.

“Now, it’s time for rule one of getting your head in the game,” Clint says, gesturing towards the tree. “Rage is a useful thing when you want to win a fight. But you should only use your rage when you can control it. So are you in control?”

“Yes,” Laura snaps, slashing the bark of the tree. Clint folds his arms, trying not to wince at the pain of his still-healing cuts.

“I’m going to ask you again, Laura. Are you in control?”

Laura looks at the tree, and down at her hands, and then retracts her claws.

“Good.” Clint nods towards the ground. “Okay. Let’s go again.”

 

***

 

By the time Clint falls into bed later that night, the adrenaline and exhaustion from the day’s events have caught up with him in a way that makes him want to sleep for weeks. He downs more tylenol for his injuries and all but face plants onto the big bed. It feels strange to have Natasha in the guest bedroom and Laura downstairs on the couch; he’s used to having Natasha here but he knew Natasha and he knew her story.

“You okay?” Laura’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a blunt knife, soft and sharp at the same time.

“Yeah,” Clint says, and it only vaguely feels like a lie. “Arms hurt.” That part’s not a lie, at least.

Laura brushes her fingers over his bandages. “What happened today? She just snapped?”

“More or less,” Clint admits. “We bumped into some punk, who insulted her. And then me. And then…” He stares up at the ceiling, focusing on the darkened stains where water has seeped through the roof on the worst storm days. “I think she was trying to protect me.”

“That ended well,” Laura remarks, but Clint finds he can’t even feel comforted.

“People try to protect me and it _never_ ends well. I thought she was going to be taken away from me. I mean, they had no business letting me stay with her in the hospital. I’m not her guardian. I just found her on the side of the road. If it wasn’t for Natasha…”

“Not everything is Pietro,” Laura says quietly as he trails off. “Not everything has to end badly. Natasha didn’t. Wanda didn’t. And _she_ won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Clint says softly. “You can’t know.”

“No,” Laura agrees. “I don’t know, and I can’t know. But I know you. And I know you’ll protect her as long as you need to. Even if she doesn’t stay here.”

Clint rolls over in bed. “Natasha wants us to send her back. How can we send her back if we don’t even know if it’s possible to open a portal again? What if she doesn’t even _want_ to go back?”

“Those are questions only she can answer,” Laura says smartly. “And once we find that out, then that’s something we deal with. And that’s why the Avengers exist. Isn’t that why you talked Wanda into fighting in the first place?”

Clint turns his head back to meet Laura’s soft smile. “You’re smart,” he decides. “No wonder I married you.”

“Hmmm.” Laura traces her finger over his bicep. “I thought you married me because I was the hot girl on the wrong side of the tracks the day you were doing that job.”

“Well, that too,” Clint amends. “A _smart_ hot girl, though.”

Laura punches him gently in the shoulder and then leans her head on his chest. Clint closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

 

***

 

Laura dreams of Logan.

She dreams of holding his hand, of the sound of his breathing slowing, of his angry face that hid more pain that he’d ever admit to. She dreams of sinking her claws into X-24, slicing through flesh and blood and bone and marrow, fingers wet with guts and anger. She dreams of running, Reavers at her back, the _thump-thump-thump_ of her backpack against her spine, a constant reminder that she was on the move, that as long as she was on the move, she was safe.

_Thump-thump-thump._

She opens her eyes to find Clint stepping onto the bottom step of the staircase, holding the hand of his daughter.

Sorry,” he apologizes. “Lila had a nightmare.”

Laura looks at the girl, the one who is only a little smaller than her, whose face is tear-streaked, and she aches with the need to tell Clint that she understands.

“Nightmares usually mean middle of the night hot chocolate runs,” Clint says, walking to the kitchen. “You’re welcome to join us, since you’re up.”

Laura gets up off the couch, grabbing the green fuzzy blanket she’s been using. She looks at Lila, who is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen chair, and sits down across from her.

“We were being chased,” she says slowly as Clint takes milk out of the fridge.

“Who was chasing you?” Lila asks, putting her chin in her hands.

“Bad people,” Laura says. “People who wanted to hurt me. A group of us.”

“Bad people chased me in my dreams,” Lila says as Clint pours milk into a saucepan and turns up the burner all the way. He finds Laura’s eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

“I was supposed to be in Canada.”

“Canada is far away,” Lila remarks, sticking her thumb in her mouth. Laura nods.

“Si.”

“Si si!” Lila slides her thumb out of her mouth and purses her lips, thinking hard as her forehead ripples into wrinkles. “What’s that?”

“It means yes in another language,” Clint offers, one watchful eye on the milk.

“Oh.” She puts her thumb back in her mouth. “So where’s mommy and daddy?”

Laura wills her claws to stay hidden underneath her skin as Clint slowly turns around again.

“Not here,” Laura replies carefully. “Muerto.”

“Mu-mu-er...whas that mean?”

“It’s another word for not here,” Clint interjects before Laura can respond. He lifts the saucepan from the stove and pours three mugs of hot chocolate, bringing them to the table. Lila accepts hers and immediately starts sipping from the red mug. Laura looks at her with raised brows.

“She inherited her mom’s steel tongue,” Clint mutters out of the side of his mouth. “Unsurprisingly, it works better for hot chocolate than soup.” He takes a small sip of his own drink. “Those people...the ones who you said were chasing you. They still chasing you?”

Laura looks down at her hands, which are folded in her lap. “No sé.”

 _I don’t know_ , but she wonders if Clint hears what she doesn’t say -- _I think I am safe here_. Clint frowns.

“If you stay here,” Clint says, keeping his voice quiet as Lila continues to drink, “what do you want to do?”

Laura shakes her head, because the question seems like too much. She thinks of Logan, of Charles, of her mother. She thinks of the friends she left behind, the ones who didn’t have much of a chance of survival, let alone any type of parental figure.

Laura gets up and leaves her mug on the table. She walks in a small circle, looking at everything in the kitchen -- the thin drapes hanging over the sink, patterned with silhouettes of birds, the small pink marshmallow coat flung hastily over one of the chair backs, the colorful array of dishes in the drying rack that form a rainbow of hues. She thinks of Logan and his last words, and feels her soul grow three sizes.

“Llevar una vida feliz.”

 

***

 

Clint sleeps late the next morning, partially because Natasha’s here and can take care of the kids, partially because by the time he gets Lila back to sleep it’s near 4am (he really needs to work on phasing out the hot chocolate rule before Laura realizes it’s still intact), and partially because he has a lot of thoughts about last night’s conversation that he wants to think about on his own.

_Llevar una vida feliz._

_What do you want? To live a happy life._

Clint turns over in bed. They were going to make her into a murder weapon either way, the same way Natasha was still a deadly assassin -- just one who had learned how to love and care for people. If he introduced her to the Avengers, she would be using her powers for good, but she would still be at risk for hurting people. It was something he worried about with Wanda, whether or not it was a valid concern.

When he finally hauls himself out of bed and drags himself downstairs, he finds the house quiet. Through the window in the living room, he catches a glimpse of Laura and Natasha standing outside, Natasha’s red hair glinting in the morning sunlight.

“She was ready for more lessons,” Natasha explains as Clint steps onto the porch, bare feet and all. Laura grins and bares her claws, running through the yard. Clint watches, impressed, as she leaps off the ground, barefoot herself. Sharp claws protrude from her feet and she snarls at a bird, before landing in the dirt. When she picks herself up again, she’s grinning even more wildly, her dark hair tangled around her face.

“She’s got _toe claws_?” Clint asks when he makes it down to the grass, unsure if he should be in awe or terrified.

“And she knows how to use them.” Natasha’s eyes are bright with excitement, the same emotion Clint remembers seeing her display the first time she saw some of the more talented recruits at SHIELD. Natasha nods at Laura as she runs back towards her.

“Again. Control your height this time when you jump. You can’t be that erratic when there are people attacking you.” She stops to watch Laura run again, and then Clint folds his arms over his chest.

“I was thinking of bringing Wanda out here.”

“Why, so you can have all your strays in one place?” Natasha asks mildly. Clint rolls his eyes.

“Because Wanda is the literal definition of someone who was experimented on, hurt people, and learned to control something she wasn’t born with.”

“I wasn’t born with my skills,” Natasha points out, and then she sighs before he can refute her words. “I know what you mean. Do you think it’ll even help?”

Clint considers her words. “I asked her what she wanted. She said she wanted to live a happy life. That’s all she wants, Nat. She wants to be a kid. She wants to not be scared.”

Natasha remains quiet, watching Laura leap into the air again, toe claws sharp and pointed. “She’s not scared around you.”

“But I can’t protect her for the rest of her life,” Clint says. “I know I can’t. And I can’t live without knowing I didn’t do everything to help her, either.”

“You’re not making her go back,” Natasha murmurs, her voice almost lost in the wind. Clint cringes.

“I think...not only is she safe here from whoever was chasing her, but I thinks she has a chance to start over. The same way you did.”

“It still has to be her decision,” Natasha reminds him. “The same way it was mine. You can’t force her to stay here against her will, no matter if she’ll be alone or not if she returns to wherever she came from.” She turns to Laura and raises her voice, the tone sliding from gentle understanding into curt roughness.

“Again. Aim for the rock, but don’t land on it. Try to get your claws in there.”

Clint watches Laura slice through the air, and feels a little bit of pride.

 

***

 

Later, during lunch, Clint brings up Wanda.

“There’s a girl I know who’s like you,” Clint explains after he brings fresh tuna fish sandwiches with tomato and lettuce to the table. “I think you should meet her.”

“How is she like me?” Laura asks, swinging her legs against the chair in an imitation of Cooper.

“Well.” Clint clears his throat. “She has powers that she wasn’t born with.”

Laura instantly looks intrigued. “Did she know the Reavers?”

Clint shares a glance with Natasha, seeing the lost look in her eye. “I don’t think so,” Clint says, deciding being vague is a safe answer. “Her name is Wanda Maximoff. Have you ever heard of someone named the Scarlet Witch?”

Laura’s brow creases and then evens out. “El historia...there were stories….” She stops and looks at Natasha. “I have a lot of memories that --”

“Aren’t there,” Natasha supplies. “I know.” She reaches out and puts a hand on Laura’s arm, and Laura looks up at Natasha hopefully.

“But she is a mutant? Like me?”

Natasha’s eyes dart to Clint, who leans back in his chair and nods. “Yeah,” he says, watching her grin widen. “She’s a mutant. Like you.”

 

***

 

It doesn’t take a lot of convincing to get Wanda to come to the farm. It takes more convincing for Wanda to assure Clint that even though Steve is bringing her -- a smart option, all things considered, given how long it would take Wanda to travel by normal means -- he won’t compromise the farm any more than it already has been compromised.

“Thanks,” Clint yells over the roar of the quinjet as Steve lowers the landing pad, saluting comically.

“Don’t mention it. I’m happy to give her a break, if it’ll help her concentrate better. We gonna see you at the base soon?”

Clint shrugs. “That’s the wife’s call,” he says, jerking his thumb back towards the house. Steve sighs.

“Got a bunch of kids that could really benefit from your skills, you know. Not just the one you hijacked from me.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, chewing on his tongue. “I know. I’ll call you when I’m ready to offer my services again.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, and then shakes his head as he walks back up the quinjet’s landing pad. Clint waits until the plane has lifted into the sky again, disappearing into stealth mode, before he goes back into the house.

“I see you’ve met,” Clint says when he opens the door to find Laura and Wanda staring at each other. For a moment, Clint can’t distinguish between the mutant girl and his Sokovian-born teammate, and then Wanda turns around, dark hair whipping back from her face.

“She was telling me about her trip here,” Wanda says conversationally, as if it was totally _not_ out of the blue for Laura to open up and talk easily. “You remind her of Wolverine. His name was Logan.”

“Is that, uh.” Clint looks at Laura. “Is that a good thing?”

Wanda turns back to Laura and Laura’s eyes shine animatedly. She’s talking, Clint realizes, Spanish tumbling from her lips so fluidly Clint can barely catch a recognizable word. What’s more, Wanda is completely silent.

“She says she would have liked you to meet him. She thinks you have a lot in common.”

“You understand Spanish?” He bypasses asking how Wanda is communicating; he figures she’s asking with her mind judging by the silence.

“I understand many languages,” Wanda shoots back. “I am multilingual, you know.” She smiles at Laura and then belatedly hugs Clint.

“Thank you for letting me come,” she whispers. Clint smiles and nods as Wanda picks up her bag, walking upstairs to put her stuff away.

“She’s like me,” Laura says in awe as she watches Wanda go. She’s smiling, and she looks like a kid in a candy store. “She’s exactly like me.”

Clint drags his fingers through her hair and smiles.

 

***

 

When Laura comes home after picking up Cooper and Lila from school, she hugs Wanda long and hard, and Clint feels a little bit of pride. Their entire relationship had been curated over Skype and letters and anything else Clint had told her about Wanda; this was technically Wanda’s first visit to the farm and her first time really meeting his family. The house feels like it’s overflowing with Wanda’s addition, everyone vying for attention and cramped under one roof, and Clint makes sure he apologizes to his wife multiple times for the overcrowdedness.

“Does that mean you’re sending her to New York?” Laura asks pointedly, crossing her arms while Clint grills later that night.

“I don’t know,” Clint admits, pushing a hamburger patty around. “I know she can’t stay here and, like... _live_ here. She’s not even _from_ here. But she just wants a normal life. Is being an Avenger really a normal life?”

“You’re asking the wife of a man I married, who brings superheroes into our home?” Laura asks sarcastically. Clint rubs a hand against the back of his neck, and Laura kisses him on the cheek. “I think you need to let her make that decision for herself,” she continues.

Clint manages to smile. “Yeah, that’s what Nat said.” He stares out at the porch; Lila is sitting on the steps with Laura, who is showing her how to make shadow puppets with her hands.

“You know, it’s a little jarring to hear my name being called over and over again...and then not have it be _me_ , but a girl more than half my age,” Laura says, nodding towards the porch. Clint grunts and flips a hamburger expertly, letting it land with a loud hiss of oil.

“Maybe we should call her little Laura,” he muses. “You know, so we have a way to differentiate. Little Laura and Big Laura.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Laura decides, taking another sip of beer from the bottle she’s been passing back and forth with him. “Please don’t bring it up to anyone else, or I’ll kill you.”

Clint laughs under his breath as she walks away, presumably to check on Cooper and bring plates out to the picnic table that’s been set up near the side of the house. When he looks up again, what he sees makes his overprotective dad senses zoom into overdrive -- Laura brandishing her claws in front of Lila’s face, way too close to her eyes.

“Lila!” Clint lets the tongs he’s been flipping burgers with clatter to the ground as he drops them instantly, running across the lawn. “Are you --”

“She showed me claws!”

Clint stops dead in his tracks, his heart beating fast in his chest, and looks at Laura, who shrugs.

“She wanted to see.”

Clint stares down at Lila, and his daughter gives him an innocent smile, devoid of any fear or worry. Clint sighs, closing his eyes.

“That’s not…” He gathers himself and turns to Laura. “We try not to do that kind of stuff here, unless we’re training or specifically working together. Okay?”

“Está bien,” Laura replies smugly and Clint finds himself wondering if he’ll actually be able to handle Lila and Cooper becoming full-fledged teenagers. He gives her one more look, reminding himself to yell at his own child later, half praying that Lila won’t say anything about the whole thing. The last thing he needed was his wife thinking Laura was going to be a bigger problem than a simple mutant stray.

“Is this your own version of young Avengers?” Natasha asks, after they’ve finally finished eating. Cooper is reading on the lawn, his book titled up towards the sky. Natasha procures another beer from the cooler, opening is easily with her thick ring, which makes Clint frown because she’s always been able to do that much better than he has.

“Yeah, well. I’m getting old, aren’t I?” He watches Laura and Wanda, who are walking slowly down the dirt driveway together.

“Maybe you can find another person in a portal somewhere, and this time, they’ll be a mini-you,” Natasha teases as Lila crawls over into Clint’s lap and tugs at his jeans, effectively saving him from answering her sarcastic response.

“Daddy, your friends are magic!”

Clint laughs and pulls Lila into his hold as Wanda deftly shoots a fireball into the sky, bathing the starry black canvas with deep blushing red.

 

***

 

“I want to talk.”

The words jar Wanda out of almost-sleep, and the sight of Laura standing in the doorway of the second guest bedroom, a silhouette of gangly limbs and straight dark hair, makes her jump.

“About?” Wanda asks, calming herself with deep breaths. Laura walks inside the room and sits on the floor, looking up. She wraps her arms around her knees.

“Tell me what happened in that place.”

Wanda sits back in bed, until she can barely see the top of Laura’s head. “Why?”

“Because.” Laura’s voice is hard but pressing at the same time, and Wanda lets out a long, quiet sigh.

“I was upset and I did not know if I could fight. Clint talked me into realizing I could overcome my fear. I owe him that, and I always will.” Wanda pauses to make sure she’s not going to cut Laura off from talking before she continues. “I think it was the opposite, with Logan.”

Laura nods slowly, getting up. “Yes,” she says, standing straight in front of Wanda, her hands hanging limp at her sides. “I was the one who was fighting and running. He didn’t want to, really. Not in the same way.”

“What do you owe Logan?” Wanda finds herself asking, because she’s suddenly curious about this girl who is so much like her, in a way. “What is so important for you to prove here?”

Laura looks down at the floor. “I am not what they made me,” she says quietly. “He told me that.”

“Can staying here help?”

Laura shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

Wanda watches as she moves to the bed. “There is a group of people who would help keep you safe,” she says slowly. “If you wanted. They took me in. We fight for people.”

Laura casts a glance in the direction of where Wanda knows the master bedroom is located. “Would he help me?”

“He will never stop helping you,” Wanda says, and as soon as she says the words out loud she knows she’s more sure than anything. She feels a stab of pain thinking about Pietro; Pietro who would have loved to work with Clint more than just a teammate, who would and could have found a home among his family, too. “But he wants you to make your own decisions. It is your life.”

“It has never been my life,” Laura remarks softly. “Until now.”

Wanda smiles sadly and reaches out, putting her hand on her arm.

“Can I?”

Laura stiffens at Wanda’s touch, but nods. “Si,” she allows, her voice a whisper. Wanda closes her eyes to calm her own mind, and then reaches her fingers towards Laura’s head.

“Relax,” Wanda murmurs as she starts to probe Laura’s mind, trying not to flinch at what she sees. There’s screaming and running, and everything seems like it’s moving too fast. Wanda fights to keep herself from being overpowered by Laura’s memories, and instead forces herself to dig deeper, to look harder…

_There._

_A dinner table, with Charles and Logan._

_A can of pringles. Pink sunglasses._

_A bloody hand in a smaller, bloodied hand._

_A cross in the shape of an X, words she can’t hear._

_A mother’s voice, gentle and sincere, far away._

_A world exploding in bright light._

The flashes intensify, and she pulls out of Laura’s mind before she starts to cry. When she comes back to herself, Laura has tears running down her cheeks.

“You are like Charles,” Laura says quietly, letting the water drip down her face. “But it is softer inside your mind.”

“It has not always been,” Wanda offers, thinking of Clint. “That is something that is new for me, too.”

 

***

 

The morning sun streams through the windows of the farm, bathing the floor and counters in rich golden light. Clint leans his elbows on the window sill, alternating between watching Wanda, Natasha and Laura outside and watching the steam rise from his coffee. A gentle hand circles his waist, and then another, and Clint lets his wife lean into him.

“You thinking?”

“What gave it away?”

Laura sighs, still holding him tight, and Clint sighs back. Wanda had told him about their late night conversation, and Clint knows it’s something that he has to address sooner rather than later. It wasn’t fair to Laura to stay here and be a prisoner of sorts when that’s the last thing he wanted to do to her. It also wasn’t fair that she had to ask all the questions, because he had too many feelings.

“Whatever she wants to do, you know you helped her,” Laura says softly. She moves so she’s standing next to him instead of behind him, and puts a palm against his face. “You’re a good person, Clint.”

“Am I? Because I’m not sure I’m cut out for this anymore.”

Laura frowns. “Cut out for what? Being a father? Or being a hero?”

Clint shrugs. “Both, I guess.”

Laura kisses him in response, running her fingers through his hair in gentle strokes. “I’m not going to answer that. But what you _are_ cut out to be is the man I married.” She gives him one more look and then walks away, purposely leaving him alone, and Clint knows why. She would defend him and support him until the end of time, but she knew when to give him his space, and why he needed to trust she would do so.

Clint takes another sip of coffee, leaving the mug on the counter before he opens the back door. Laura is standing barefoot in the grass again, but this time, Wanda is throwing fireballs in the air that Laura is slashing through as Natasha watches intently. For all her intense concentration that Clint can see even from far away, Laura stops moving when she notices Clint coming towards her.

“Looking good,” he says, leaning against the large oak tree. Laura grins, and Clint realizes that she seems the most happy when she’s like this -- fighting, being useful, control be damned. He wonders if Wolverine had been the same way, at least earlier in his life. He knows Natasha had been. He knows she still is. “Can we have a lesson?”

Laura nods and retracts her claws, walking towards him.

“I want to ask you something,” Clint starts, and Laura shrugs.

“Si.”

Why were you running away from bad people?”

Laura looks back at Natasha. “I was experimented on,” she says, turning around again to face him. “They wanted to kill me.”

“Okay. How did Logan die?”

The second question seems to shock her, and even Wanda and Natasha look surprised at what he’s asking; he can see the reproach coloring their faces. It does the job, though, and Laura’s claws immediately show again.

“He was killed,” she says angrily, slashing at the tree. Clint sees the metal coming at his face, close to his cheek, but he doesn’t move, even as the claws brush past his skin.

“Are you in control, Laura?”

“Yes,” Laura snaps, raising her arm. Clint holds up his hands.

“I’m going to ask you again. Are you in control?”

Laura looks at the tree and then back at Clint. She puts her hands down, and the claws retract, before shooting out again. “Yes.”

Clint watches her closely, considering her response, taking note of the way her facial expressions don’t change. He takes a deep breath.

“Do you want to stay?”

Laura stares back at him and Clint holds her gaze, hazel eyes boring into sharp chocolate ones. She slashes a mark into the tree cleanly, leaving razor-thick claw marks along the bark. “Yes.”

Clint smiles. Laura looks impatient, and Clint stifles a laugh, because he remembers seeing that exact same look in someone else, once upon a time, in answer to the very same question.

“What now?”

“Now,” Clint says, sharing a look with Natasha. “Let’s see what you can do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't taken Spanish or been immersed in it since college, so if anything is egregiously wrong in here, I'm honestly sorry. (But I'm not sorry for feelings.)
> 
> Find me for fic and more on tumblr: @isjustprogress.


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